


The Lives of Les Amis

by littlelark_xo



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/F, F/M, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, M/M, Modern Era, One Shot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-07 02:38:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16399805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelark_xo/pseuds/littlelark_xo
Summary: A series of one-shots written by yours truly surrounding what I'd like to see these lovely people doing in modernity. Most of these are inspired by the cast of the Les Mis production that I am currently in, so kudos to them. Feel free to send requests!





	1. Mademoiselle Fauchelevant

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So, this is my first one-shot for Les Amis, and I kind of love it? I just love the idea of little Gavroche growing up between all of these chaotic people and suddenly having this stabilising presence in his life - and I really think he'd adore Cosette so much. I only wish they'd had a chance to meet outside of this! This was inspired by my relationship with the boy playing Gavroche in the production I am currently playing Cosette in, so thank you, Stephen!

Gavroche had spent most of his life surrounded by chaotic people, but _her_? She was different.

First, it’d been his parents. They were criminals, as far from clean-living people as you could get, fraudulent and vile and known for it in every corner they called home. They’d never cared much for him, not as much as they had for his sisters – and that was saying something, considering how often Éponine had been beaten to a pulp by their father. He could barely remember them, and he knew they barely remembered that he existed from the way they quite simply didn’t see him when they passed on the streets of Paris. Perhaps that was because he looked different now, happier and less inherently dirty thanks to Grantaire’s insistence on scrubbing him clean once a fortnight; or maybe it was because, nowadays, he was more often than not hanging around Enjolras’ neck, grinning, _happy_. Maybe that was for the better.

There was his sister, Éponine, too. She was never all too sisterly towards him, seemingly more preoccupied with her own life – with Marius Pontmercy and their parents, who she still loved despite how they treated her - and Gavroche understood that. Éponine craved to be loved: if that meant she could only sneak him ice cream once or twice a year and hug him even less than that, it was okay.

Then – and now, sort of – it was those two: Enjolras and Grantaire. Enjolras was bossy, a control freak, and he could often be found sunk in deep trains of thought that no one would be able to snap him out of – but he was bright, a burst of colour in a dull world, what Grantaire scathingly (or, more likely, endearingly) called an ‘unoriginal idealist’. He didn’t treat him like a child, would explain Karl Marx’s theories to him in exactly the same way he would to the few new people who attended the meetings at the Musain, and let him wear his ribbons and coats whenever he wanted, even though they were too big and he inevitably lost some pin or another. Grantaire was like an explosion of laughter in the days, always having time for a game or a story or just a chat. At nights, he was melancholy, drunk more often than not and usually with his head in Enjolras’ lap – but he still had time for him. That was what mattered.

The other guys who lingered at the ABC Café were like family too: Bahorel, brave and bold like those Arthurian knights that Grantaire would tell him about before bed; Combeferre, quiet and reflective but just as quickly sparring with Enjolras, spitting contradictions and driving him insane; Feuilly, scholarly and always happy to fill Gavroche’s head with stories of revolutionaries and leaders throughout history. There was Courfeyrac, who would always scruff his hair and smile; Jehan the poet and Joly the medic, who would always bring him sweets whenever they came by Enjolras and Grantaire’s apartment, and Lesgle, always injured but always smiling under his roof of falling tiles. And Marius, always quiet and somewhat sad, who’d give Gavroche trinkets he’d found at the bottom of his trunk without him asking and took him out on walks with him through the city.

That was when they’d found her.

They’d been walking through the park in the centre of Paris, Marius with his nose buried in the latest newsletter that Enjolras had told him to distribute through the city, Gavroche chasing a squirrel across the path when, suddenly, he collided with someone. He’d managed to stay on his feet, blunt nails digging into the mud so that he didn’t drop to the ground, but the person in front of him hadn’t been so lucky, and Marius had hurried over, papers scattered (at least Enjolras had gotten what he wanted). Gavroche had watched as he’d carefully helped the stranger up, and then he’d seen her face.

Cosette Fauchelevant: the only adequate way to describe her was a ray of sunshine. Her hair, hazelnut brown flecked with hints of gold, tumbling over her shoulders, was pushed out of her face to reveal a face, open and honest. Eyes like kaleidoscopes of blue, smile when it eventually came like a glint of gold, she’d shook her head, said there was nothing to worry about, and been seemingly oblivious to the way Marius was staring at her because _she was staring at him too_. Gavroche had helped pick up her things, she’d kissed his cheek as a thank you, Marius had broken his gaze from her for long enough to invite her for a drink, and it’d all gone from there.

Suddenly, she was there. Suddenly, everything and everyone in Gavroche’s little life wasn’t so chaotic. She was the stabiliser, the brightness, and as she became a more permanent figure in Gavroche’s life, she held more sway over him – and the rest of the Musain - than before.

From the first day she’d stepped into the café, she’d changed it irreversibly.

Enjolras, although never much interested in the ways and wiles of women, was enchanted by her, as was Grantaire. She’d correct the newsletters before they were sent out, having pointed out the constant mistakes that Grantaire seemed to make whenever he was typing – and Grantaire, who would normally have grumbled about being corrected, didn’t care. He listened. Enjolras took pleasure in hearing her ideas, her opinions on what the café was working to do. He marvelled at her.

The other members of the ABC found her a brilliant and surprising presence. After getting over the initial shock that Marius had gotten himself a girlfriend, and laughing raucously over how Gavroche had quite literally knocked her for six when they’d first met, they came to enjoy her presence more than anything else. She’d chide them when they drank too much, tie the curtains open and bring madeleines to their meetings (which seemed to bring more members, leading Enjolras to encouraged her to make more). She even brought her father once, which had petrified Marius to no end until Jean Valjean, as they’d found out his name was, had burst into peals of uncontrollable laughter at an awful joke of Grantaire’s and proved himself to be not quite so scary after all. Even Éponine liked her, although begrudgingly, because of what she did for Marius.

Marius was happy, so happy as to hardly be able to stop smiling. They were always near each other, almost always touching, either his hands in her hair or hers straightening his shirt. She’d play with the ring on his finger, once his grandfather’s, as they listened to Enjolras speak at meetings, and he’d weave ribbons into her hair before rallies, red, white and blue. He’d watch her admiringly almost constantly, his entire being fixed upon her. She was his lighthouse. She was everything.

And to Gavroche? To him, she was wonderful. He’d bring her flowers he’d picked from the parks around Paris and, in return, she’d kiss his forehead and sneak him extra cakes. She’d sit with him while the meetings went on late into the night, when Gavroche would insist that he wasn’t tired but slowly begin to drift off to sleep as her hands carded through his hair. She’d sing lullabies to him, her voice lovely as a lark, but she’d never fail to treat him like an adult when he wanted it, listening patiently as he told her what he thought about the government (usually parroting Enjolras’ speeches word for word, but he didn’t think she had to know that).

Cosette was different. And Gavroche was so, so grateful for her.


	2. Broken Bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought some angsty Enjoltaire might be a nice addition to this compilation, mostly because I'm very stressed out and needed some outlet. I hope you enjoy!

Grantaire was hurting; that much was clear.

Enjolras could tell without seeing him that he wasn't okay. He supposed that was what it got like when you'd known each other for so long. Grantaire could tell when he needed a break, a hot cup of coffee and a hand in his hair and one of those stupid Disney movies that he'd always told him he hated but which never failed to calm him down. Enjolras could tell when the day had gotten a bit too much for Grantaire when he could smell alcohol on his breath and there was paint up his arms, and he knew that he needed to hug him as tight as ever until he gave up fighting and relaxed into him. He knew how to deal with the smaller things.

But he also knew how to deal with the bigger things. The times when he'd walk into their flat above the Musain, keys clattering against the table by their front door, and he'd hear deadly silence. When he knew he'd walk into the bathroom to find him lying in a bath of ice cold water, staring up at the ceiling, his lack of response only less worrying because of the empty bottle of wine that nestled against a still-burning cigarette left in an ashtray next to him. When he'd find him angry in their bedroom, sobbing in the kitchen, picking at a hangnail on his thumb with his teeth dug into his lower lip in the living room, staring at the news playing on mute, pictures flicking across it of the protest that'd turned violent. When he'd hold him or listen to him yell or sit next to him as he drank. 

When they wouldn't argue properly, not really. They'd just play witness to each other's sadness, guilt, worry - all feelings that ate at you, gnawed like dogs on bones, but they were  _your_ bones, and you could see it happening in  _that person's_ eyes and it hurt like you'd been stabbed.

Enjolras knew that he made Grantaire like this. He knew that it was his almost constant disappearances off to some rally or other, some meeting, anything that would challenge the people sat in government and anything that could turn violent, that made him break. He knew that he was the one who put all manner of thoughts into Grantaire's head, the one who made him worry that, just maybe, one day no one would come through the door. One day, no one would come at all, and he'd find out through the news that the boy leading the protests was dead - he'd been shot or stabbed or crushed or beaten or tasered or thrown in the Seine or  _something_ \- and no one would come to him because no one cared. He wouldn't get the body back, no one would come to a funeral because there wouldn't be one, and no one would remember his name but him. 

But he couldn't stop.

That was why, when he walked into the flat that night, he knew Grantaire had been watching. He knew he'd been caught up in his own head, had forgotten Enjolras' promises that he'd come home or written them off as useless. He knew that, when he found him with his back against the kitchen counter, head in his hands, shirtsleeves bunched up around his elbows and hair a mess, he needed to do damage control. He knew  _this_ was a bigger thing. 

And so he got down onto the floor next to him, careful not to startle. He pressed his hand against Grantaire's shoulder through his shirt, giving it a squeeze. He let that hand slide down his arm, up his forearm, close over his wrist and gently ease his hand away from his face. And Grantaire looked at him, and he was angry, he knew he was, and he'd be yelling soon enough, but just for a few seconds, he let himself be coddled. He let their fingers twine together, let Enjolras lean forward and press a kiss to his forehead, and then let himself lean into him.

Enjolras knew he could hear his heartbeat. He knew that was the reassurance he needed.

And so he tangled his hand in his hair, pressed his face against his shoulder, and waited it out, because that was all he could do. Because he needed Grantaire to know that he would always come home. Because he loved him, more than anything.

And when he felt tears dampening his shirt, silent tears, that was when he knew he had to speak. The final reassurance.

"I love you."

A beat.

"I love you too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this one-shot! It was written in one unedited go while I was half-in, half-out of a bath, so I don't expect that it's too good, but I hope you liked it all the same! As always, comments and kudos are very much appreciated, and if you have any requests, don't hesitate to let me know!


	3. You Are The Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to meet the love of your life's father? Not really a concrete answer. But God, she wished there was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some cute Eposette-ness inspired by the lovely Eponine in our production and myself. As you always say, let's just leave Marius to his tree and handkerchief and go off to start our own revolution with more cake.

Éponine was completely and utterly head-over-heels in love with Cosette, and that was a fact. She loved her more than anything - more than movie nights and take-outs and herself - and that was why she'd rather stay as far away from her family as possible. Never meet the mysterious Mr Fauchelevant, run away to some... some cottage somewhere and somehow convince her girlfriend never to see her own father again. Good plan. Brilliant plan.

Didn't work, though.

Of course Cosette wasn't going to let it happen. She was far too nice, far too devoted to her father, and far too damn convincing for Éponine ever to ignore her, on pain of either the silent treatment or sure death. And so she let herself be convinced with homemade pumpkin soup and a whole lot of kissing and the sound of her voice cascading down honey-sweet scales and soft melodies of love songs as she sewed pins for Enjolras' latest protest (rainbow ribbons; she approved). 

So she'd come and done the honourable thing. She'd eaten, although barely able to stomach more than a quarter of a plate of food - nerves were a bitch - and she'd made vague small talk, and she hadn't looked once at the guy's face. Because she was a disaster, really, and she didn't  _want_ to. Unfortunately, though, Cosette was cleverer than that, and she usually got what she wanted. Well, 'usually' - always.

That was how she found herself uncomfortably dressed up - or not dressed up, since her lovely girlfriend didn't seem to agree that jeans and a blouse could be considered 'dressed up' - and sat awkwardly across from Mr Fauchelevant - Jean, he'd insisted, but that was never going to happen - in a room to which Cosette had opened every single window and promptly disappeared. She was making coffee, apparently, but Éponine had a suspicion that she was either doing something else entirely (probably reading, she was never  _not_ reading) or delaying, because it didn't take ten minutes to make three cups of coffee. And it was awkward. It was always awkward.

Christ, it was awkward.

She could tell he was looking at her from his chair, could feel his gaze on her, and it wasn't harsh or anything, didn't feel like it was, but she just  _couldn't look up_.

He was going to hate her. He already did. She could tell.

And then she heard him clear his throat, shift, and shit shit shit shit shit-

"Well, you're doing better than Marius. He'd already broken a plate by now. Two, actually, but Cosette doesn't know I found the broken china."

And without thinking about it, she was laughing, faintly, and then his laughter joined hers, lower and strangely uncontrolled, and she forced herself to look at him, and he was smiling. Crinkles at the corners of his eyes, leaning forward in his chair, friendly. A smile settled on his face, and he seemed to study her for a moment.

"I don't know what it is about my daughter, but I've found that the more she wants me to like someone, the longer she stays away for. So I presume she wants me to like you quite a lot. I don't think she realises that I like everyone that makes her happy - but let's not tell her that, okay? I might get poisoned for it."

More laughter. Suddenly, she wasn't quite so scared anymore. And Cosette stepped in, coffee cups on a tray, eyebrows drawn together with a faint smile. "Éponine, I really do hope he isn't telling you any of his awful jokes. He thinks he's funny, don't you?"

"I'm very funny, Cosette, you just don't understand my humour."

"I doubt 'Ponine does either - do you, Ep?" She looked over at her with a raised eyebrow, a faint smile on her face, sliding the tray onto the coffee table.

He was looking at her, smiling, and God, she understood that.

He looked at her like she was the sun; she  _was_ her sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! Please leave kudos and comments and requests if you want, and thanks for reading! x

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this! Comments are appreciated, as are kudos, and if you have any requests or ideas you'd like to see me write, then please do let me know!


End file.
